Can't Blame Anyone For Saying Hello
by curtanthonywild
Summary: Ten years after the Maxwell Demon fake assassination stunt and the later disappearance of the star himself, Curt Wild releases an album that drudges up all multitude of ghosts of the past, and in a whirlwind of nostalgia and tugs at heart strings, he finds himself flung back into the orbit of a man he once knew quite well.
1. Jesus Of The Moon

_A blur of motion, deep blue and streaks of emerald, flecks of gold. The scene spinning._

 _And then it stops, abruptly._

 _The world around him is crystalline, and he's standing on the edge of what looks to be a cliff, an edge, but it's all shadow, like he's standing on fog shaped like rocks._

 _The sky above is vast and dark, stars with bright halos fill the black. It doesn't look like the sky should look, it's blended with brush strokes like a painting, and flickering like a tv screen._

 _He's reaching out an arm, towards the stars, and though just a moment ago it looked to be far away, his hand goes right up and passes through it. The sky ripples like it's been water all along._

 _In the dim blue light of this technicolor night, his hair looks to be deep violet. It's long, in waves, just past his shoulders. Though his face can't be seen now, it's clear that it's him. He's saying something but it's too soft to make out. Then he turns around. The stars reflecting in his eyes, mouth parted, he's crying. The will to move closer is overwhelming but he's cemented to where he stands, observing. He tries calling out to him, but nothing comes out. It all blurs again, spins and spins, and then disintegrates._

Curt opens his eyes. White ceiling. No more stars. No more night sky. His head is fogged, he tries to grasp reality and real time. He blinks. He shifts. And an increasingly uneasy feeling quickly sets in.

The thought creeps into his head before he can stop it, before he can violently shove it away, beat it to death before it can have any bearing on him. That was Brian. That was long auburn haired, young pre-Maxwell Demon Brian Slade, a version he hadn't even known, only ever seen in photographs. That was what he remembered at least, though the vision had been clear, familiar, as if he'd seen it with his own eyes before. Curt rubs his face, his hands feel tingly and dirty. He's always felt real emotion physically, in the tips of his fingers, in his knees, his shoulders, his stomach. He doesn't want to think about this now. Brian's long gone, he's not here and he hasn't been for ten years. Yet still the ghost of teary blue eyes hangs in Curt's head like a tapestry. The more he tries to rip it down the stronger the image grows. It's been years. It's been years and he doesn't want to think about this anymore. He doesn't have to. It's over. It's not something he has to deal with anymore. His hands feel dirty.

He rips the bed sheets off, gets up and goes into the bathroom connected to his bedroom. His legs are stiff. He scrubs his hands with soap and cold water, in an attempt to ground himself. He has somewhere to be, he has shit to work on and this is a dumb thing to be this out of it over. This isn't what he should be spending energy on.

"Ground control to Curt Wild."

He's startled and feels himself jump, almost knocking his guitar off of his lap.

"What?"

"You've been sitting there staring off into space for ages." Malcolm says, mockingly. "I don't know _what's_ wrong with you but if we're not gonna work on the record you should at least let Jack and I go home."

It's the 80s now, and times have changed, but musically Curt and Jack Fairy still work together from time to time. Of course, now Jack and Malcolm O'Hara, lead singer of the Flaming Creatures, are a package deal. He's mean, annoying, and snarky a lot of the time, but he's a good musician and an even better creative addition to the record they've been in the studio working on for the past few weeks.

"Is something wrong? You really haven't been present at all today." Jack asks, voice soft and gentle.

Things had been a lot easier between them since they'd decided they were better off just friends and business partners. Especially since Jack had gotten with Malcolm.

Now that Curt lived in Seattle and the two of them were usually back in Berlin, they had enough space that when they were together they had a nicer time together. Well, at least Curt and Jack that is.

"No, sorry," He finally answers. "Just had a weird dream. Been kinda-"

"So have a joint and get over it." Malcolm interjects.

"Darling I really don't think that'll help much in this situation…" Jack tries, but he's already lighting up, taking a drag and passing it to Curt.

He takes it between his fingers, and brings it up to his lips, taking a quick inhale and handing it back over to Malcolm.

"What, that's all?"

"If I have too much I'll just get more tired."

"Pussy."

"Do you want to get work done or not, asshole?"

"I don't much care, you asked _us_ to help _you._ It's your record-"

Jack clears his throat.

"Sorry," Malcolm says, sighing and taking another drag. "I'm calm. I'm serene. I'm not going to argue anymore."

"Thank you."

Curt's moved on already, he's strumming a few chords on his sticker-covered acoustic and humming under his breath.

"Got something new for us?"

"Maybe."

He doesn't actually finish the song until later that day, sitting in his regular spot at Arlo's, which is a shitty little diner with burnt orange walls and olive green cracked booth covers. He adores the owners, an older couple, both very grandparent-like. The husband, Curt, is rather fond of him, and he's pretty sure it's because they share the name and that's all it took.

Curt _Wild_ is in the corner, sitting leaned against the wall with his legs across the bench, crossed at the ankles, his battered composition notebook half sliding out of his lap. He tunes out the current hits radio as words flow from somewhere above him into his hand and onto the lined paper.

He's smoking cigarette after cigarette, things coming to him that he didn't know he still cared about. The waitstaff ignores him, save for occasionally refilling his coffee.

Lines come around about the St. James hotel, crashing waves, coarse sand, a green pin and tears about the stars. He knows he's letting his dream fuck him with, but he hasn't dreamed about Brian in ages. Maybe not since they were together. No. After the assassination-or, the fake assassination. Not since then.

That was a long time ago. He keeps telling himself that. Why is he trying to convince himself of any of that like it's not true? It wasn't an issue anymore, he was over it. They'd both disappeared, changed. Last he'd had heard of him, Brian had gone back to Birmingham. He'd found that so strange. Why would he want to go back to a home that was never home to him, with all the stories he'd told about his parents?

And why does Curt care?

Yet, here he is, writing a stupid reminiscent song about a trip he'd taken ten years ago, and wondering about him, where he is now, and what he's doing.

The song is done, lyrically, at least, and he wonders if Jack and Malcolm will be able to tell who it's about. He dreads having to explain.

They both despise Brian. With good reason, he supposes.

Why doesn't he feel that same anger, that same resentment?

Maybe the grief, the panic, the sadness, and then the blinding anger faded over time. Because maybe that wasn't the important part about knowing him.

With that thought, Curt collects his notebook, lighter, and carton of cigarettes, gets up from his seat, throws a few dollars onto the table, and heads home.


	2. Days Were Golden

_He's being pulled down a seemingly endless, powder blue striped walled hall. No windows, no doors, no electric lights, yet there's a clear glow illuminating the space. The hand gripping his is soft. He feels breathless. They're gliding carelessly towards nothing, feet not quite touching the floor. Time is slow. The laws of physics do not apply. And he's a winged creature, maybe they both are. He hears a muted ethereal humming. He asks him where they're going._

" _You'll see."_

 _A few more beats and the hallway disappears. Shattering around them like stained glass, giving away to blue sky, clear ocean, white sand. And he feels elated. He grips the hand tightly, but it's slipping away now. He's standing in front of him, wearing loose fitting clothes that are rippling in the wind like a silk flag. He's grinning, a playful glint in his eyes. Or maybe that's the sun. His hair is light, and clipped elegantly short. And now the sky and the ocean aren't separated. Everything around Brian is waves. Crashing sea foam white in a halo._

" _Are you coming in?" He asks, promises and anticipation in his voice._

 _Then he disappears._

 _He goes after him, but the ocean becomes dark blue curtains, and parting them, he only finds a vast darkness._

" _Curt, wake up."_

Fuck. He'd fallen asleep in the studio again. He sits up from the couch, too quickly, making himself dizzy. Dark green dots float in his vision. He blinks them away.

"Sorry, sorry I know I said I wouldn't do this anymore." Curt says, frantically, his voice raspy.

His eyes focus on Malcolm, who's staring at him with a bit of concern that quickly turns to annoyed disinterest.

" _Well,"_ He says, combing fingers through his flawless black bob. "I don't particularly care what you do, at least we've gotten something done. I'm going home, and Jack would be mad if I just left you here, after they'd closed up and locked the doors. You'd wake up, all confused and pathetic, and would be trapped here. That'd be just _terrible."  
_ Curt sighs, and rubs his eyes.

"You were talking in your sleep."

Fuck. His dream comes swinging back full force. _Oh god._

Malcolm doesn't elaborate further, he just gives Curt a knowing smirk and walks out, the door of the studio room slamming behind him.

It's been a week since that first dream about Brian. He's barely been sleeping. Curt doesn't deal with the past well. He doesn't like to think about, or rather, deal with the regret, guilt, longing, any of that shit. Yet the feelings and memories came through in the songs whether he wanted them to or not, and he can't get away from the dreams. It seems like every single time he closes his eyes, there's some new swirling scene, cryptic dialogue, and a strange mix of sorrow and elation.

The previous day, _Tumbling Down_ had come on the radio at the diner, and Curt had to physically leave because he couldn't handle the emotions that came with that. For the rest of the day he'd just picked at his fingers and smoked, because he wasn't willing to let himself dwell on his thoughts, but he couldn't completely push them away either, so he'd just stared off into space.

The whole week had been like that, and the only thing that was helping was channeling all of it into the music. He can tell Malcolm knows, especially now, although he's not sure if Jack has caught on.

Back at his apartment, he paces. He has a collection of underground punk bands playing on the turntable, but it doesn't scratch the itch, or clear his head like it usually does.

Curt goes to his kitchen table, piled with papers and messy with various things he'd thrown there, clears a space and rolls a joint.

He takes a long drag, and brings it into the living room where he lays on the couch, closes his eyes, and just listens.

His body feels like it's vibrating. Bursts of color explode against the dark. He thinks about sound. There was a condition- he doesn't remember what it's called- where people physically see colors and shapes when listening to music. Curt wonders if he's known anyone like that. Not Jack, not Malcolm, or any of the Creatures. Not the people in his band, they don't have that sort of sixth sense. Or- is that what that is? A sixth sense? It's really only senses combined.

The phone rings. A shrill, piercing sound, and he groans and rolls off the couch. He puts out the joint on the coffee table ashtray, and makes his way towards the kitchen. He hopes it's important.

"Hello? I was given this number, I was told I could reach Curt Wild. I wanted to ask about Brian Slade." The boy's voice is soft and hesitant, polite, not demanding at all, but Curt feels anger stirring in his stomach. Brian is fucking haunting him.

"Look, I don't know where you got this number, but Curt Wild is not available, and not interested in talking to anyone on this subject. You got it?"

He slams the phone back onto the hook.

How the fuck _did_ that guy get his number? He doesn't want to think about this now. Christ, he only just chilled out a little. He can physically feel the high going bad.

That night, he doesn't even try to force himself to sleep. He goes through two cartons of cigarettes, and he hears Jack's voice in his head. ' _You should really try to cut back, it's bad for you.'_ He had quit, and was convinced he could make everyone else quit too if he just nagged them enough.

Curt sits by the open window, looks out over the cars and empty shops and streetlights, and allows himself to write without steering his thoughts.

It's like the years of trying to move past trauma have taught him- your feelings are just that: feelings. They don't mean you have to do anything. They aren't right or wrong, and you can't change them. All you can do is recognize them, sit with them, get to know them, and ignoring them usually only makes them grow stronger.

And so, he allows the full extent of them to spill out onto the lined paper of his notebook. The words connect with the chords progressions like stars connect to create constellations. It's a kind of catharsis he's never allowed himself.

Being with Brian changed his life, and no amount of forgetting or repressing was going to erase that. There are things he's holding onto that he isn't ready to let go of, some things he couldn't even if he tried.

If he can't find what any of this means now, he doesn't have to. What he does know is that he's turning it into art. Decent music. That was something Brian had always done for him. Given him something to sing about.


	3. Never Lost Control

There are Polaroid pictures scattered throughout the house, as there always have been, wherever Brian has lived. They are under beds, tucked into books, hidden beneath the socks in his dresser. He has them yellowing on the coffee table, spoiling on the mantle- pictures of nothing, of no one. Merely of people he has found interesting, of flowers, of the ocean, of his shoes: Always blurry, always unfocused and excited. He's never fancied himself a photographer.

Back when he was very young, when he was first discovering the underground clubs in London, he'd been a nuisance. He'd had entire boxes filled with photographs of drag performers, of pearl necklaces and platform shoes, anything that seemed outrageous. Dating even before that, he had devoted endless rolls of film to the long hair and love beads that had obsessed him before: of himself and of friends he no longer knew the names of. He'd documented their endless attempts to mimic John Lennon and Jimi Hendrix, their devotion to the movement that had amounted to nothing, just like every other movement before it.

He had pictures of he and Mandy's first flat, and of their strange little wedding in the park that was made up of three friends and a picnic. He had pictures of Cecil's smiling face when he came over for lunch, and pictures of him naked in bed afterwards. Pictures of his own flowing hair and gowns, pictures of the dressing rooms of dateless gigs he'd played. He had pictures of Trevor and Shannon- Trevor frowning tiredly at whatever gaudy new outfit he'd been asked to wear, Shannon looking tense and wilted. He had pictures of Jerry in his giant office with the horrible carpet, and pictures of the staff lounging around it like Victorian dandies, not a care in the world beyond what they would be doing for fun that evening.

All of these had been an attempt to capture something, some feeling that he knew he wouldn't get back. Usually, when he stumbled across them, he couldn't remember what the feeling had been. He didn't have many of the old ones anymore. He'd left most of them in London, when he'd run away- those he found, if they held any significance, he burned. For the first three years of living in Paris, he'd taken that approach. Brian found that he liked erasing things almost as much as he'd liked preserving them.

But considering how hasty he'd been when he'd fled from Birmingham that last time- and he had been hasty, leaving in the middle of the night without a word to his mother- he shouldn't be surprised that he'd forgotten to leave this one. He probably had many more like it lying around, waiting like ticking bombs.

In it, Curt is probably twenty five, lanky, greasy, and rumpled. He's stretched out on the window seat of Brian's old room, a dark shadow against the white wall. In his hands, he holds a battered copy of _Down On The Street_ , which Brian had only bought because it was the first piece of Curt Wild-related media he'd seen in England. How excited he'd been. How embarrassing it had seemed at the time, for Curt to find it. He looks smug, and surprised: Brian vaguely remembers that he was humiliated with having his picture taken.

 _-Why did you do that?_

 _-Well, it makes a nice picture._

 _-Of what?_

 _\- Of nothing. Of you._

It had been tucked carelessly into Brian's old copy of _A Clockwork Orange._ He'd probably done it a long time ago, in England, when he and Curt were young and stupid and close. Maybe he'd done it so he would smile when he opened the book again, maybe it had been because they had so many pictures of each other that it was the closest thing at hand. He can't understand how he could have been so flippant with something like this now- so many pointless photographs and he'd used this one as a bookmark.

The light of early morning slips under Brian's shade and spills across his bed and book, obscuring Curt's face. Brian finds that he is very cold, and much older than he has been for the past fifteen minutes.

1972 fades like old paper, and 1985 starts up again, in a strange, bright flat.

He's going to be late to the theatre if he doesn't get up, and he has to get up today. It's not long until opening night.

He glances to the table in the corner- his newest play sits unfinished, a mess of papers he'd abandoned at midnight. He's been having such a good month, and now it's all erased. The stifling, familiar mix of sweet nostalgia and worthlessness is on him again. Not as choking as it had been in Birmingham, when it had overwhelmed him almost to the point of insanity, but far too heavy for comfort.

Luckily, the phone rings next to his bed, forcing him to move.

"Mr. Stoningham?"

"Hullo."

"Hello, we've had a bit of an emergency- your lead is being a bit demanding-won't rehearse"

"I'll be down, shortly."

"Thank you."

Brian hangs up, and swings to his feet, feeling a bit better. Yes, he is Mr. Stoningham now, of Paris, France: a well-known but still humble playwright, a bachelor with few friends and no real enemies. He's getting up to deal with an unruly actor, and then maybe he'll go to lunch, then he'll have to come home and feed his cat.

Brian Slade, in all his tackiness, is long gone. His youthful, irrational feelings are gone with him.

 _I've become what I always feared,_ he thinks, sliding on his jacket, _a dull, old man._

 _I believe I prefer that._

Brian picks up the Polaroid, careful not to look at it, and opens his bedroom window.

It flutters in the wind like a dark leaf, disappearing into the snow below.


	4. Death To Birth

Another three weeks pass by and the album is nearly done. They're just finishing up production, and fixing minor imperfections. Eleven songs, forty-nine minutes. Ten of which have something to do with Brian, maybe all eleven actually, and it's pretty apparent to everyone who's worked on the record. The band, the producers, the recording engineer's, probably the people from the record label if they care, Jack, and of course;

"This song makes me so uncomfortable." Malcolm says, making a disgusted face.

"What?" Curt asks. "Why?"

"It's obviously about your sex life with Brian. It's lyrically exactly like 'I Feel You' which you literally released while you were together. You are a very transparent man, Mr. Wild."

"Oh." He just says, staring at the ground. He feels embarrassed.

"But," Malcolm sighs. "I'm not saying it's bad. I just hate it, knowing what it's about. It's well written, and I really love the synth on it."

Curt smiles a little at this, because as much as he hates to admit it, Malcolm's approval means something to him.

"I have to warn you though, it's _obvious._ You've got to decide if you're willing to deal with the consequences."

He swallows, and rips a hand through his hair. He's right.

"Either way, I'm not singing the fucking 'Over and over' parts, you couldn't pay me enough. That's disgusting."

Curt laughs, and feels a bit better about this whole thing.

And so Heaven goes on the album.

Maybe two weeks after the release of _Dream On,_ Curt Wild's first record in three years, comes a whirlwind of success.

There had been some debate about the name.

"Isn't that kind of stupid?" Malcolm had asked. "It sounds kind of cheesy to me."

"I think it's a step up from Danger Zone." Jack added.

"I like strong title tracks. It's a strong song. It fits the theme of the album." Curt had said, leaving no room for argument.

What he meant, was that he fit what the album meant to him, where it had come from, and it came from his dreams. From restless nights of processing and remembering and being followed by the past.

Now, Curt isn't sure what to make of this. He has two songs playing on the radio daily. Heaven, being one of them, to Malcolm's dismay.

It seems to him now that it was the right time to break all of this down, and to get it out of his system.

The record is getting glowing reviews as a whole. He's being asked by papers, magazines and shows to come in for interviews.

The problem is, Curt doesn't know what to tell them, and he'd been warned, but he didn't care.

The music was the important thing, not his reputation. Even so, he has to answer to someone, anyone.

Jack and Malcolm agree to come with him.

It's starting to worry him just how much he relies on the both of them, and how much he'd confided in Malcolm. He supposes the brutal honesty and sarcasm can be comforting, if you're in the mood for it.

In the car on the way to the _Kerrang Magazine_ Seattle headquarters, Curt can't help but think about Berlin.

How he'd had the funds to fly there, but nothing more. How he'd known no one, had no idea where he was going, and had spent the night in an alley wrapped in his leather trench coat, smoking and crying at everything that had transpired and where it had landed him. How he'd felt that every good thing he'd ever known had destroyed him.

That Curt had almost gotten himself killed. Nearly OD'd so many times. Finally pulled himself out of it, thanks to Jack, mainly, and a lot of weed and being shut in a cabin in the North woods of Michigan.

Now, here he was. A sensation all over again, but this time, on his own.

Yet, didn't he still owe some part of this to Brian? At least, the Brian he'd known. For the experience. For the feelings. For the entirely dramatic and ridiculous and drug-drenched life they'd lived.

It was a disaster, but not one he wants to forget.

When they get to the office, the three of them are led into a dimly lit room with a giant navy corduroy couch facing a single matching armchair.

They sit. Curt in the middle. Jack, on his left, gingerly crossing his legs, wearing tan suede trousers and an elegant patterned button down, violet eyeliner, and a soft, if a bit attached expression. Malcolm is wearing all black, making the blue of his eyes startling, and is looking inpatient. Curt is in dark wash jeans, his jacket as usual, He's fidgeting.

They're being recorded. He's very glad he has them with. Each time they ask him a question, and he feels unsure of what to say or feels like he can't answer, Jack and Malcolm steer the conversation in a more comfortable direction with vague explanation and big sweeping generalizations.

It's an exhausting experience. He's terrified that everyone _knows._ But it's over soon enough.

They drop Curt off at his apartment afterwards. It's early afternoon. He puts an early Tom Waits record on the turntable with the volume low, falls into his bed, and drifts into a dreamless sleep.


	5. Your Fear Is As Old As The World

Seeing his name in the papers is always frightening for him. Ever since the _SLADE COCAINE_ bust he'd been horrified every time Brian Slade came back up, always in a more unflattering light than before. It had been comforting when he became just a memory, a figment of the past that was occasionally commented on each time the anniversary of his grand stunt rolled around. Still though, the feeling of his multiple shames being broadcast all over England had never left him, occasionally cropping up in strange, surreal nightmares.

Even now, reading the buzz surrounding his latest play over coffee, it's difficult to keep swallowing. He is not Brian Slade anymore:he is the dignified writer/director T. Brian Stoningham, who's newest work will be debuting two weeks from now. Will it be as grand a tribute to Wilde as _A Tragedy In One Act_ and _The Rocket?_

He smiles like a fat cat. ' _Grand tribute to Wilde'- Yes, I suppose they are._

Despite his anxieties, he's disappointed with the size of the article: so small, so insignificant. He's worked for two years on this play and it's barely a footnote. It's the kind of thing people will only read if they're looking for it, that only a small knot of theatre people will see. Of course, he won't make the front page of anything, but he never counted successes unless they were roaring…

Brian flings the paper away, bored with it. The diner he's lounging in tonight is terribly silent, the only other patrons being a tired older man and a quiet young woman, who is reading in a back booth. It's a crummy, tiled place, but it's never obnoxious. The only sound is the radio, quiet and unsure in the dank air.

 _And next up, a bit of a blast from the past. A song off of shock rocker Curt Wild's newest record, Dream On. This is 'Heaven'!_

"Excuse me?"

All eyes turn to him, brows furrowed.

Brian freezes, his fingernails stabbing into his palms until his hands go numb: The sensation spreads up his arms until it encases him. The message of the song seems to bowl into the diner, grotesque with how obvious it is. Nobody moves an inch, or even acknowledges what they're hearing. The sound is thin and tinny, but it doesn't matter. It's all he can hear.

"Need something?" The cashier asks, as Brian's eyes have fixed on her.

"No, thank you. My apologies."

The general attention is turned away from him, and it's as if a spotlight had been shining on his head.

The color rises in Brian's face, beyond his control, as he listens. He can't tell what he's feeling. Some horrible swirl of excitement and anxiety that twists his stomach and makes his mouth taste sour. He shreds a napkin in his hands, staring straight ahead.

 _This can't be about what you think it's about. This is not about what you think it's about._

He glances at himself in the dark window and finds that he's turned pink, and his eyes are blazing, as though he were caught doing something wrong. It's absurd. He's thirty-seven years old, for God's sake.

 _I haven't done anything,_ he thinks, savagely, _He's the one who wrote it._

He could almost believe it wasn't about him. He could almost blame his panic on his arrogance.

If _only_ it didn't sound so much like _I Feel You_ , he could simply drag himself home and suffer.

Brian rises as the last bars dissipate and pays for his coffee in a daze. The night is cold, and the clouds are whisking over the moon- the shop will be closed soon, and then he'll be too late. He'll have to lie in agony until morning, wondering. He'll wake up in his white apartment with the cat looking at him, and a day of rehearsals staring him in the face. He'll try to control himself, and wind up scanning the radio stations, pretending he's not doing what he's doing.

He just has to hear the record. Once he hears it he can put it away and be done with it.

Obviously, he deserves the closer of _hearing_ the damn thing just as much as Curt deserves the closure of writing it.

The street outside is oddly busy: his jacket shudders in the wind. Cars race by him, throwing up sludge and snow. He knows he should be freezing, but he doesn't: the flush is still high on his cheeks, still pink in his ears.

"Is this all?" The bored teenager behind the counter is at the end of his shift.

"Yes."

"That's a pretty good record. I think it's the best he's done since _Danger Zone._ "

"I wouldn't know."

He's given a disappointed look, as though he could have been interesting for five seconds if only he'd tried a little harder.

"Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight."

 _Sometimes I slide away_

 _Silently_

 _I slowly lose myself_

 _Over and over…_

Brian is on his back, eyes closed. Freezing rain occasionally lashes against his exposed stomach and shoulders, burning him. His bedroom windows are thrown wide, and though the snow has stopped the rain is heavy and needle-like. His soaked curtains whip back and forth. The light flickers. Curt's music has been wrapped around him for hours, his lyrics pressing into Brian's brain until he can no longer understand them. Things only he would know. Things only he would say. There is no closure in this: only more dark, twisting, forgotten places that he had never wanted to visit again. Curt's voice is not bitter, merely sincere. It's still alive with whatever it was that made him so compelling, only that aspect is calmer, stronger.

Brian is so fucking wasted.

He restarts the record, and then rolls over, watching the rain fall.


	6. Midnight Man

In the dazzling whirlwind that comes with any musical success, Curt panics. He grows increasingly paranoid with what people may be saying about him. Not even the record, not the songs themselves, or how good they are, but Curt, as a person.

Back when he was a junkie, people spoke of all manner of horrible and embarrassing things he had done while high off his ass. Some of them were harmless, most of them weren't. Back then he'd just shoot up and forget he cared, now it wasn't so easy. Anytime there's any real recognition, he's filled with a deep set anxiety that leads to a string of avoidant impulses. There's the buzzing though, still. The tingling warm feeling that comes from being the center of attention. He wants to reach for it, clutch it and always bathe in the glow, but his fears yank him backwards and deeper into the dark. He could psychoanalyze himself about it for years if no one stopped him. Curt can think himself into oblivion.

Sometimes Curt doesn't realize he's doing all that thinking out loud.

"Let's not do that," Jack's voice breaks him out of his trance, his cool, soft hand taking his is a shock to his system. "That's a bad idea."

The scene around him rushes in. They're at a party, some trashy warehouse-esk venue, still not underground enough for his taste, though Malcolm has been complaining about the place reminding him of the clubs he used to perform at with the Creatures in the early days. The light is dim and tinted blue, it's crowded, and people flit in and out of view, dissipating into shadows.

People that Curt has never met have been coming up to him all evening, clapping him on the back and congratulating him on his success. Some have offered him demos to listen to. Some even ask for autographs, and he wonders how those kids got in. Finally someone passes him a pipe and he smokes an entire bowl, and he instantly feels a bit better.

There's music playing, hard and low, a raspy voice growling velvet, and the sound is moving in waves. He closes his eyes and tilts back his head. Jack is still holding his hand, and Curt is squeezing it tightly. He figures he must know how these kind of functions make him feel: cloudy, unreal, removed. He's grateful that Jack is a good enough friend to offer himself up as an anchor, while his boyfriend is off gallivanting around fucking with people and swallowing pills. (Arguably what Malcolm O'Hara does best)

Some college girl is sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, diagonal from him. She's going to UW of course, for _Journalism,_ and has probably the most jarring shrill voice Curt has ever heard.

She's chatting him up about her crazy days as a wild teen and how she'd always thought he was a genius and blah-blah-blah she can't believe she's here talking with him now. He wonders for the second time who let these kids into the club.

Or maybe the question is, who let Curt Wild and his band into the club? Why had they even come here?

Where were they, even? Seattle still, if there are UW students there. Was it Malcolm who demanded they go out and celebrate? He thinks that's it.

Yeah, that's it. He'd been all ' _Curtis this is a big success for you we have to go get shitfaced and celebrate somewhere'_ and Jack had sanctioned it on the grounds of having a good time.

Suddenly, there he is in front of Curt. Wide black lined blue eyes, dark hair wild. He's dragging someone behind him, and then he pulls her into view.

"Look who I found, boys!" He says, and he's obviously fucked up on all manner of things. "What a blast from the past!"

And there she is, blonde waves just past her shoulders, elegant black sweater, calculating expression, her eyes land on Curt. She's holding a glass of scotch in the same hand as her cigarette, it's resting between two ringed fingers, her nails are unpainted. She smiles wryly.

"Mandy?"

"Hello," She says. "It's been a long time Mr. Wild."

Her words are slurred, and she's obviously thrown back quite a few, but she seems more controlled and collected than she ever was when Curt had known her. She sits down in a folding chair across from where he is on the battered old couch with Jack. Malcolm looms ominously on the arm of it.

"You look good." Curt says, because she does. She's grown up nicely.

"I know," Mandy drawls, taking a drag and then setting her glass on the floor. "You haven't changed a bit."

He's not sure if that's meant as a insult or not.

"What're you doing in Seattle?" Jack asks, his voice sincere and curious.

"Oh, just visiting a friend in Olympia. She's this _lovely_ irish girl who moved to the states only a few years ago. Her accent is so thick I can scarcely understand her most of the time, but let me tell you, it _really_ doesn't matter. I'm having a wonderful time really, just came to the city tonight for some excitement. She's floating around here somewhere."

Jack nods and smiles politely, Malcolm moves over to sit in his lap, press his face into his neck and giggle.

She dazzles them with stories and witty remarks for a while well Curt half listens and half spaces out, both because he's dissociating and because he's baked.

He hasn't talked to Mandy in at least five years. They'd been friendly since he and Brian had broken up, and had been there for each other throughout all the muck and mire.

When Curt moved to Seattle originally he'd still been in touch with her, but then came 1980, the year of his big breakdown, and his temporary move back to Michigan, where he stayed in a cabin in Menominee and taken a lot of adderall and filled up three notebooks with material. It was already a ghost town and he isolated himself completely, telling no one where he was going.

When he came back to civilization, all of his friends were pretty pissed off at him. He'd just never thought to call Mandy again.

What frightened him was the timing. And with her came memories of Brian.

"So Curt," She was addressing him now, haughty and amused. "This record of yours has been quite a hit, huh?"

"Yeah." He doesn't meet her eyes. He already knows that she has all the information. That she knows exactly who the bulk of it is about.

"I must say you've grown a lot as a writer, really, it's some brilliant stuff."

Curt looks up at her then, surprised by the kind words. She seems sincere.

"Really?"

"Oh completely, truly I really enjoyed most of it. I must say I didn't appreciate the jab at me in that one song...oh, what was it called- midnight something."

He feels himself flush with embarrassment.

"Midnight man." Jack gives it to her.

"That's the one."

"It wasn't a jab," He chokes out. "Just an observation."

"Oh, I think it was definitely a jab at how desperate I was back then, and how pathetically enthralled I was with _Mr. Slade._ But I'm not offended, not really, it _is_ the truth."

Curt is quiet. Brian has been mentioned now.

"It's funny, Curt, because not too long ago I talked to this journalist in London about Brian. Sweet, darling boy. Wanted to know if I knew anything about where he is today. I didn't tell him, of course. I may have my issues with the man but I don't hate him enough to bring him back out into the light when he's done such a fine job of shutting himself away."

So Mandy was the one who'd given his home phone to that kid. His thoughts can only stay focused on that for a moment, though, because it sounds like she knows where Brian is.

"Anyway, it's funny because shortly after that, out comes your record. So much Brian Slade related media in a small period of time."

She's talking too loud. She's just spilling out the story, and while yes he willingly put out everything in that record, he doesn't need everyone to know. He doesn't want that. He's anxious now. He doesn't want to sit here anymore.

He rips himself from Jack's hold and moves to get up.

"I don't want to listen to this, I'm going ho-"

"He's in Paris, if you're curious at all. Writing plays."

Curt stops. His head goes blank.

" _That's_ so funny, Mandy!" Malcolm says. "We're going there on tour!"


	7. Closer To The Golden Dawn

He knows about it, of course. He hears it mentioned during a break by Annette and Yasmina, both of whom have tickets. He wouldn't have thought them to be the kind of people interested in Curt Wild: two young, bookish girls who never have very much to say to anyone except each other. But there it is: a European tour. A few nights spent in Paris. Curt, Jack, and Malcolm- God, ten years could be ten minutes for all that's changed.

That night, Brian heads back to the liquor store.

The theatre is a dull, drab place after a week of heavy drinking and minimal eating: a gaudy, useless affair. He feels hated, he _is_ hated, because he's fucking useless. He had so loved it when he first came here, the make believe of it all: The way everything always came together, no matter how awful or tiring it was to get it on its feet. Never before in his life had he liked hard work, but this, he'd felt, was worth it. He'd loved the energy of the place, the life contained within. He'd loved how there was always excitement bubbling in the atmosphere, even when everyone was dead on their feet. That kind of feeling bred creativity, and was almost entirely responsible for his last two works.

He'd been tricked, as he was always tricked, into thinking he'd finally found what he was meant to do.

That notion seems silly and childish now as he sits on the edge of the stage, sipping a bottle of water and staring stupidly at the scuffed floor beneath him. The lights are too bright, the voices are too loud. He'd called a break because he just couldn't stand the monotony of the script anymore.

He knows they're talking about him, his actors. Saying he's gone off the deep end, finally, after years of tottering on the edge of it. What a prick he is to fall apart two weeks before opening night.

 _How easy it would be to throw myself into the pit. They'd all have a story to take home._

He feels unsettled, dried out, anxious. Normally he loved this point in the process, the final weeks of flurried preparation before it was sink or swim. Now it's all too close, too demanding. He can't even remember why he's here anymore, what it's supposed to mean. His mother had called him yesterday to inform him that his father had passed, and that Brian, if he could somehow manage it, should come home for the funeral. She'd spoken to the machine instead of him, though he'd been home to answer.

When he went back tonight, he'd have to phone.

"Mr. Stoningham?"

Brian looks up, blinks. It's Yasmina. She looks tired and perturbed. This is the most she's ever said to him- she's flustered, and is speaking in tense, broken English, as she always did when she addressed him.

"More today, or? Going home?"

They'd barely been here four hours, but the idea of continuing is repulsive to him. Everyone is loitering, waiting for his word.

"I think we'll end it here," He says, his voice sounding much stronger than he is, booming through the theatre,

"There's not much else to do."

It's a bold-faced lie, but they all accept it with a murmur and a few disappointed glances. Feet shuffle, belongings are collected, a gradual hum of voices rises around him. He hauls himself up, and manages to smile at Yasmina.

"See you tomorrow."

She nods, and drifts away.

Outside, it's a bitter twenty-two degrees. The snow clouds are returning: low, gray, and pendulous on the horizon. Already, they're threatening the thin, waning moon that hangs so high and frail in the darkening sky. The sidewalks are as barren as they can be in Paris. Everyone is hiding from the approaching blizzard, running from the icy wind, everyone but him. Brian has been walking for at least an hour now, in a directionless, desperate sort of way, pretending that he has things he needs to do before he goes home. It makes him afraid to even think of going back. He can't stand the idea of seeing the red light blinking on his answering machine. After he calls her he'll have to walk into his bedroom, and see Curt's record sitting on his dresser. Suppose he and his mother have a row? Or that he has another endless night without sleep?

No, it's better to keep walking. The world does not exist beyond these streets, no responsibilities, nothing to confront. There is nothing beyond the blurred lights of traffic, beyond the darkened, red faces of the people who pass him.

He catches his reflection in a shop window: his thin, white face, expressionless but for the frenzied look that's come into his eyes. His long black coat makes it seem like he's nothing but a head, bobbing bodiless in the dark.

The slam of a door catches his attention. He realizes, dimly, that he knows exactly where he is. He's right outside the diner, not ten feet away. The sign, red and green, twinkles cheerfully at him through the darkness. He's disappointed: He'd hoped to end up miles and miles away from here. He's just been going in a mad, stumbling circle.

He turns back to his reflection and touches his frozen cheek. He can't feel a thing.

 _Perhaps it's time to go inside, then._

But something is off about this place tonight, something that isn't just his hysterical mind. Peering through the glass door, he can see that the place is in a bit of a frenzy. Well, more of a frenzy than he's ever seen it: The waiters are actually up and about, with high spots of color on their cheeks. A happy, jubilated buzzing is reverberating inside.

Brian glances over, amazed.

Curt, Jack, and Malcolm are the only people in the building. Jack has a quiet, tired smile on his face, as he's currently busy with one of the starstruck waiters. His hair is still a deep magenta, and though he's sitting in a dank diner with three teenagers as company he holds himself like the Queen. Brian can tell he's speaking quite politely, and can imagine his calm, cool voice. Malcolm is in a giant black coat that seems to be made entirely of feathers. He's tugging on Curt's sleeve, with a teasing, stupid grin.

Curt is staring into space, saying nothing. He has not changed. He looks tired, rough- He remembers that he always got like that after touring for a while, distant and irritable. The thought comes to him impersonally, as though it were something someone had told him instead of a fact he knew himself.

Curt smiles at something Jack says to him, finally coming back from wherever he'd been.

Brian knows he should run. Any minute now someone will notice the mute idiot standing in the doorway. He finds that he's like one in a dream, that his body isn't under his control.

A wild, stupid impulse to yank the door open and blunder inside seizes him, and drives a harsh, feverish bark of laughter from his lips.

They all look at him then, at exactly the same moment. For one solitary second, it seems that they don't recognize him. Jack blinks, Malcolm frowns, and Curt squints at him belligerently.

And then, in the order they'd looked, recognition creeps onto their faces. It's the first time in his life Brian has seen Jack surprised. Curt's mouth falls open, and he says something Brian is glad he can't hear.

It's when Malcolm screams, "Oh my _God, is it?!"_ That he grasps the reality of the situation.

Brian turns, not wanting to run but breaking into a trot anyway, the wind whipping at his face and neck and tearing at his throat. Confusion and terror have got him now, and a desperate hatred for God, or whoever had made it so Curt had to be there tonight. Tomorrow he'll feel stupid for literally running away from them all, but he can't face them now. They've fully burst the bubble he's built for himself, the little world that was supposed to protect him from the one he really lived in.

He fancies he hears the door open, but nothing will make him look back now.

He turns the corner, and knows the diner is out of sight.


	8. Bottled Light From Hotels

The tour is making this record feel like a big fucking mistake.

Curt is jetlagged 24/7, having a hell of a time even keeping himself conscious enough to breathe, and is pretty fucking pissed off in general. Well, in general, yes, but also specifically at Mandy, for existing, like it's somehow her fault they're touring where Brian lives, like if maybe she hadn't given them that information it wouldn't be happening. And at Malcolm, for being an asshole about it, for consistently poking fun at him and rubbing it in his face, and at Jack, for still _making them go._

It had been difficult to psych himself up even for the last three shows. He wonders if people like that though, him all strung out looking like he's gonna collapse. Everybody loves bands more when they're fucked up on heroin and all that shit. They haven't seemed any less into the shows with the band being tired, as long as they still play the songs.

Curt still puts his all into it though, still throws himself around through the heavy songs. He still feels it all. It makes for a very draining afterward, but it wouldn't feel worth it if he didn't.

The three of them are at a small diner obviously kept afloat by tourists more than regulars, the kind of place that's dead in the off season. They'd chosen it based on its proximity to the hotel.

When they'd started the tour, in London, everyone still wanted to try new things and go out and shit, but by this point Curt could not make himself go into any place fancy. All he wanted was some fucking coffee, and the diner shit was better than the expensive shit.

They're having what feels like the same fucking conversation for the hundredth time over a late breakfast-dinner, the only difference is now Malcolm is being a bitch over cheap crepes instead of cheap pancakes.

Jack must realize he's spacing out, because he offers his same line:

"You just have to make it to Sunday, after the show no one will expect anything from you, and we can fly you home and you can relax for as long as you like."

Curt gives him a tired smile, and tries to make it sincere, but he isn't sure he succeeds.

His constant attempts at comfort, though he appreciates the effort, do nothing but annoy him. Because it's not Sunday, it's Friday, and even then;

If it was just the exhaustion, the irritation, the constant sensory overload and inability to make his eyes focus on anything, he'd be alright.

But it isn't.

 _It's a big city. It's three nights. There's no way you'll see him, the possibility is too low. It's a big city. It's three nights. There's no way you'll see him, the possibility is too low. It's a big city. It's three nights. There's no way you'll see him, the possibility is too low._

That mantra that been what kept Curt sane on the way to France, in the hotel, on stage. That, and a lot of pot, of course. He'd had to take deep breaths, dig his nails into is wrist, hit himself in the face sometimes just to snap himself out of his own head.

And then his fears are proven to be justified.

There's a man, standing in the door of the restaurant, long black coat, sandy blonde hair, looking to be about their age. He's staring straight at them.

Curt doesn't realize until he registers the eyes. _That_ blue.

It's him.

And suddenly it's apparent that Malcolm has recognized him too because he's squawking like some sort of goth tropical bird and making a whole scene.

He's just staring. He can't move. He's standing right there and Curt's brain won't catch up.

"Brian?"

And as soon as he's appeared, he's gone again, the door swinging behind him.

Curt unfreezes a moment too late. He's rushing to the door, pulling it open, but there's nothing more than a stir of movement in the dark.

He just stands there, for a long time. Feeling what, he doesn't know. Like he's floating in space, like he's not there. Like he's just dreaming again.

Jack comes up behind him, gently takes him by the hand, and pulls him out into the street.

They head back to the hotel.

In the morning, after not getting any sleep, Curt is sitting on the balcony that goes out from their room.

He's smoking from his third pack in the last twelve hours, and not thinking about much of anything. Just staring at the frozen gray skyline.

He hears the sliding glass door open, and footsteps. He doesn't move.

It's Malcolm. Curt really doesn't want to talk to him.

"I know you're busy being very boring and sad," He says. "But I have something that might interest you."

He kneels down to his level, shows him a newspaper, and points to an article.

"Mandy was right. He is writing plays, and _directing._ Tonight's the opening."

 _T. Brian Stoningham._

That's him, it couldn't be anyone else. Not with what it says about Oscar fucking Wilde.

That thought makes Curt self consciously finger the green crystal pin he'd had fastened to his jacket for over a decade.

He has to see the play.


	9. Always Crashing In The Same Car

He's not sure what pulls him out of it, what gives him tunnel vision about the whole thing. Maybe the backbone he's been lacking all his life finally rears within him. Maybe he's just tired of Curt Wild destroying his sanity over and over again. Maybe he just won't let anything spoil opening night. Whatever it is, something snaps, and the next morning he wakes up with a hard knot of resolve in his stomach. He pulls himself out of bed, and dials his mother.

"Thomas? Is that you?"

"Yes, mum. Good morning."

"What a surprise. I suppose this is my Christmas present?"

He stares out the window at the pale, dead sky, still caught in the midst of a blizzard. The little dig, which would usually stick under his skin like a thorn, doesn't affect him. It seems that every feeling he has is being shoved behind a door, for him to open and examine later.

"I called to tell you I'll be back for the funeral."

"Oh! Oh…" She sounds awkward, shocked, and he hears the clink of her spoon against her tea cup.

There is a long, awkward period of silence.

"Well, I just wanted you to know I plan on coming back."

"Where do you plan to stay?"

He hadn't quite prepared for this question, but his answer is cool, natural.

"A hotel, I suppose. I can only spare a few days."

"You know you can stay with me. John is coming home."

Stuck in his mother's house with his older brother: What a wonderful weekend that would be.

"I believe a hotel would be best," He murmurs,

"I should be going. Goodbye, love you."

"Yes, Thomas. Goodbye."

He hangs up, and leans tiredly against the wall behind him. Fiona, his cat, butts against his knee.

He leans down, and pets her absently. The night before keeps coming at him in little fragments: the red sheen of Jack's hair, the window-shaking volume of Malcolm's voice. Curt's face, frozen with disbelief- but not angry, not angry at all.

The same numbing mechanism as before kicks in, and he finds it's easy to disregard last night, easy to look upon it like a bad nightmare. It's something to be shaken by, of course, but nothing of substance or value.

He straightens up and pours his coffee, turning once again to stare at the dead gray sky. He is not sacrificing the well-being of this play just because of some bad memories. Memories that will be flying out of his life again in less than forty-eight hours, hopefully for another ten years.

That day Brian is a machine. Not a particularly well-oiled machine, but a machine nonetheless. He's more forgetful than usual: scattering coffee cups, papers, and pens around the vicinity at random, making glaring mistakes with his French, forgetting names and dates. But he's here, and he's working, and through it all he has the soothing sense that he's really made something good. Everyone seems to pick up on his steady, desperate energy. It's a tight rehearsal, with few breaks and no time wasted. They work grimly, diligently, like soldiers before a deciding battle. He feels a sudden affinity for them all, and humbleness at how hard they're working on something he cares so deeply about. Everyone rushes past him in colorful streams, eyes set ahead, hands always busy with a dress or a ragged script. The hours don't fly by, but they don't drag as they did yesterday. More than once he finds himself completely happy and absorbed in his work, another little ant in the whirring colony.

At one point the lights go down and he's sitting in the audience, testing the volume of the microphones one last time. He's tired. They're all tired. Sweat is clinging to his brow, and he's half asleep on his hand.

Then the music swells, and then his characters stumble on stage, in the midst of an argument about their arranged marriage. The light sparkles off the jewels around Lady Elaine's neck, and catches in the golden hair of Lord Adrian. Their movements are well-blocked, their tones convincing. When the glass vase is smashed at the end of the first act he actually jumps, and then laughs at the bored, unimpressed expression on Lord Adrian's face.

It's perfect, it's beautiful. None of it is stiff, as he had been afraid of, and none of it has suffered from how badly he's been doing.

Brian grins like a small child, so elated he can barely sit still to watch the rest of it.

At the end, after the climax(which had seemed particularly gut-wrenching to him today) he leaps to his feet and gives them a standing ovation.

"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!"

Everyone beams at him, and the gaiety that had been missing all day arrives in full force.

They have created a good show, and they are proud.

Backstage is the usual disaster. The calm veneer that has been straining itself all day is gone, but he sees that as more of a relief than anything else. Now if he's sick, or pulls out all his hair, he will only be joining the ranks.

People whisk by him, so fast he sometimes can't tell if they're real or just light flashing across his eyes. They are not graceful, as they had been earlier: brushing by in an orderly way, sure of their destination. Now they're loud and hurried, now they have come out of themselves completely. Noise is all around him: feet clattering on the steps, across the stage, winding downstairs to the dressing rooms and up through the set.

"Monsieur Stoningham-?"

"Brian-?"

"Monsieur-?"

Faces, bright-eyed and sweaty, appear and disappear as he stumbles from place to place. He hears himself answering their questions with the commanding, decisive tone reserved especially for this night.

"I'm not the head of the costume department, but I say that's a fine substitute."

"Remember, we talked about throwing your voice? You'll be fine."

"I am quite certain your slippers can withstand the glass shards- I made sure to tell Mrs. Bernard about that hazard."

Though most everyone has been through this before (none of them, excepting Yasmina and Annette, are

novices) they all seem to be losing it. French profanity is heavy in the air. At one point, Lady Elaine's dress loses a sleeve. At one point, they lose Lady Elaine, as Estelle Thomas is notoriously touchy.

Yasmina and Annette are both sick, twice each, and wear the expressions of trapped mice. None of his attempts to comfort them do much good, so he can only hope they hold it together on stage.

After an argument with Estelle, Gabriel lays face-down on the floor for five solid minutes before Brian can jostle him to his feet.

He'd forgotten how much he loves opening night.

Finally, it's curtain call. Brian gives a sort of spirit-lifting speech, mainly for the benefit of Yasmina and Annette, and then they are loosed from his grasp. He will have no more control over any of them until they're offstage: His lungs tighten. The booming voice over the loudspeaker that announces the play, the sponsors, and his name seems to shake the very floor he stands on.

Then, silence.

The curtain rises, heavy, dusty red velvet rolling to the ceiling, and the music blasts throughout the house.

It's very full. It is a sea of hazy, uncertain faces, rising up above the stage like a wave.

The lights are blinding. The voices of Gabriel and Estelle are loud and sure- he sees them silhouetted against the massive dark audience, shining and strong, giving no sign of their nerves.

The house erupts with laughter, and Brian almost sinks to his knees with relief. He can see the front row: their eyes gleaming, their faces rapt. One young woman shakes her friend, they point and grin, bursting into laughter again. He could watch forever.

Soon, he's informed by a stagehand that he needs to come away. There are other matters to attend to.


	10. All Apologies

Curt feels stupid buying his ticket. He's sure the cashier at the box office just _knows._ Knows the whole story, about the record, and how everything happened. She's brunette, non-descript, sort of youngish, looking frazzled and tired. In reality, she probably doesn't care and just wants her shift to be over- Curt remembers what working minimum wage was like back in Ann Arbor. He's aware of this, but it doesn't stop the paranoia and the shame.

He's terrified of the impending possibility of confrontation. Always hated it. Ever since he'd stopped doing heroin he'd been awful at dealing with it. Often times he'd just go away, disappear out of his body and his eyes wouldn't focus when the situation arose. A therapist, who he'd only seen for a month, had told him this was on account of his trauma, i.e. what had happened to him when he was living at home as a kid and the trip to the psychiatric hospital afterward. The funny is, knowing the reason for things doesn't actually make them any easier to deal with. That's why therapy is pointless to him.

He's half hoping Brian won't see him, won't even know he's there. He's hoping _nobody_ will see him. But Curt also knows he can't let the chance slip through his fingers,and that if he can talk to him, if he can get a hold on him, or maybe even just see him again that maybe things will feel resolved. Because making this record hasn't put it in a nice little box in the back of his head. If anything, the dreams, the songs, they'd all just had his head swimming with memories, all burning, growing stronger and brighter the longer he dwelled on them. And every show he's reminded of this, and every show he starts crying in the middle of _I Need You_ and wonders why he wrote such a depressing, pathetic song about the fake assassination for a record he's released in fucking 1985. It's not the 70s, and it's not even the post-Maxwell Demon days anymore. It's been years and years. Thinking of how Brian must see him, pathetic and obsessed, dwelling on the past, makes him nauseous. He quickly turns his thoughts away.

If he's gonna do this shit, he's got to get himself together. It's a good thing he walked to the theater on impulse because they've nearly sold out. What would he have done then? If he wouldn't have had the chance?

Curt absently thanks the cashier and slips the ticket into the pocket of his jeans. He heads back to the hotel, to do what with himself now, he doesn't know- wait for the night to come, he supposes.

He waits as long as he possibly can before going inside. His heart feels like it's going to burst it's way out of his ribcage. He imagines a bloody mess on the pavement in a bit too much detail and figures he should probably go in already.

He hands the attendant his ticket. She rips off the serrated part and hands it back to him without even sparing a glance at him.

There's assigned seating of course, it's a fancy production, but Curt doesn't do that kinda thing. He sits in the furthest row from the stage in the corner, closest to the door. There's no way he's getting trapped in the middle of this.

The weight of his leather jacket is a small comfort, but not enough to keep him grounded. He picks at his fingers, scratching off scabs and digging his nails into newly healed skin. He's so nervous, he's so scared, he wonders why he ever thought this would be a good idea. He keeps his eyes on his surplus store combat boots.

This is Brian's new life and it's not Curt's place to barge back into it this way. He knows that and he has since he'd found out he was living in Paris.

The play begins, he looks up at the stage, and there's no getting out of this now.

The atmosphere, the costumes, the set up in just the opening is so dramatically elegant and so very Brian that he has to smile a bit. He remembers late night rants, sometimes tearful, about the injustice of Oscar Wilde's trial and incarceration. He thinks of the newspaper mention and imagines the Brian he knew, in the old days, reacting to something like that.

He twists the pin on the lapel of his jacket. Twisting it, tightening and loosening, and runs his fingers over the smooth dimensions of the green jewel.

Curt is transfixed. Impressed but certainly not surprised. Every line is purposeful, laced with a meaning beyond the surface. Brian was a genius, always had been. Curt wished he'd had the chance to read more of his writing when they were together. The musician in him was only a small piece, he was an artist in every sense it seemed, and while Curt had always admired him for that fact, he didn't think he'd ever had the chance to really experience it this way.

Then movement in the corner near the stage door distracts him.

Fuck. It's Brian.

He's far enough away that Curt can almost believe he's mistaken, but not quite. He's exactly the same man who'd been standing in the doorway of the diner, only now he's got a suit and a rose pinned to his jacket. There's someone at his shoulder, whispering to him, but he can tell by the expression on his face that Brian isn't listening. _Shit.  
_ His eyes are wide, dazed. If he's visible to Curt he must be visible to everyone else, but he still hasn't moved from the stagedoor. Something happens: a vase smashes. Uproarious laughter. Applause.  
He'd only glanced away for a second, but when he looks back, Brian has disappeared.

Curt realizes then that he may not have any other options now. He gets up before he can think too hard about it. Quietly, and carefully he makes his way towards the door he'd seen him in front of seconds before.

His boots are too loud in the stairwell, providing a low drone beneath the general chaos. It's much louder than Curt would have thought: a mind-numbing buzz that disorients him, making it even harder to try and figure out where he's going. Everyone is in such a rush that he seems to register as more of a walking obstacle than a human being, which is comforting, though he's not sure how he's supposed to find Brian if no one will even look at him.  
He feels like if he keeps going down he'll find a door with a placard reading  
BRIAN SLADE in big black letters. It probably won't be that easy now.

"Excuse me, sir?" A sharp American accent breaks through the buzzing, sounding crass and strange against the tumult of French. It's an older man wearing a white dress shirt, which he has sweat through completely.  
"Yeah?"  
"Are you authorized to be here?"  
Curt snorts, but it's hidden by the clamor. One of the actresses comes up the steps, wearing wide, lacy blue skirts and a violent slash of red lipstick.  
"I _asked_ if you were authorized to be backstage?"  
"I'm a friend of the director. Thomas Stoningham?"  
His new friend looks incredulous, his large, weepy eyes set intently on Curt's face. For a second, his chest feels too tight, and the noise of the stairwell closes in on him.  
 _He's going to say something about it. He's going to kick me out.  
_ Curt sees himself back at the hotel, defeated, listening to Malcolm harp on and on about the love that could never be. Jack's face, sympathetic but cool, silently imposing that it was for the best. _For the best, for the best, for the best-  
_ "What's your name?"  
"Uh-"  
"Mr. De Winter," The weepy eyes lift from Curt's face,  
"There are other things I need your help with. I gave you a list."  
He freezes, but feels too warm just the same. He stares at stupidly at Mr. De Winter as Brian's shoulder brushes his, just for a second.  
"Yes, Mr. Stoningham, I was just-"  
"I can handle this, I believe."  
Brian glances at him, blue eyes hard and dark. His lips are set in a thin, stiff line. Panic creeps up the back of Curt's spine with prickling fingers.  
"Yes, Mr. Stoningham."  
Mr. De Winter shuffles back up the steps, glancing down at them every few seconds and connecting the dots. Curt watches him open the door he'd come through and disappear.

Brian turns to him as the noise around them dulls: People are beginning to take interest in the scene, their eyes itchy and prying on Curt's face.  
"Won't you please accompany me back to my office?"

Curt says nothing. It's easy to follow Brian down a long tiled fluorescent lit hallway. It's much easier not to have to watch his expression, cold, dim, somewhere else.

He had that ability. He could turn it all off so quickly. Curt never could. He has to feel giant and clumsy and out of place and _oh so pathetic._

Brian stops in the entrance of a doorway with an official looking name card, printed in dark bold font, mounted on the wall next to it.

 _T. Brian Stoningham - Director_

He waits for Curt to walk inside before he shuts the door firmly behind them.

Brian is quiet, his hand lingering on the knob, his back turned to him. He's breathing slowly, heavily: Sweat shines on the back of his neck.  
"So, you found me," He says, very carefully, and Curt realizes that his eyes are fixed on the green brooch pinned to his jacket, "You found me. I'm sure Malcolm is very proud of himself."  
"That's not-" Curt says, but Brian cuts him off.  
"Please, let me speak."  
He becomes aware that he's taller, older, different. There are sad, heavy lines forming around his mouth, and the softness has gone out of his face. He's become a white, dead skull. The way he looks at him is sickening, worse than the disappointment in the studio, or the hateful, bitter mask when Curt had finally left. At least then Brian had _cared_ on some level, when they were fighting or breaking up. Now he just looks resentful, and exhausted.  
"I don't care what you say about Brian Slade in the records, or in the papers," He says,  
"I don't care what you say about him to Jack and Malcolm. I don't care what they say in England, America, Germany, _wherever_ you happen to go because I know he follows you, and I'm sorry for it. I know he follows everyone."  
His eyes are still on the pin, their expression passing between disbelief and rage.  
Curt wants to rip it off, throw it across the room.  
"I don't talk," He spits, and a sort of flame comes into Brian's eyes, wicked and twisting,  
"I don't. I haven't said one goddamn thing about you to the press."  
He scoffs and looks away.  
"That's the brilliant part, you don't even have to. _They all know who you mean,_ Curt. My dead grandmother must know who you mean."  
He can't argue that, so he's quiet, grinding his teeth together. Shame is making it difficult to look at him. Brian is very close: his breath brushes Curt's face. His eyes dart forever downward, towards the pin.  
"Why are you here?"  
"I don't- Just to talk to you. I just want to fucking talk to you."  
He moves silently across the room and takes a seat in a big, worn-looking leather chair, as though he were some government official ordering Curt's assassination. He motions to the loveseat across from him, but he doesn't move.  
"If you came to talk you might as well be comfortable." He snaps, propping his cheek up on his palm. His actions seem completely ridiculous, almost insulting.  
Curt flushes, and shakes his head, leaning against the door.  
Brian glares, cold and impatient. "Suit yourself then."

He taps his fingers against the arm of the chair, making a soft, dull sound on the leather. It feels to Curt like ticking seconds on a clock, like Brian could order him out at any time, like he's just waiting for the right moment.

He crosses his arms over his chest and squeezes himself tightly. Where should he start? What's the thing to say to have it make sense to him?

"It wasn't- I couldn't, I mean-" He sighs sharply, fuming, feeling himself shaking so hard.

 _Why are you here?_

He takes a deep breath, uncrosses his arms and looks down at his hands. He picks at his fingers, they're disgusting, all full of bloody scabs.

"It wasn't supposed to be a big fucking thing. Really. I didn't want to think this hard about any of it. I didn't want to drudge any of this shit back up, for me, for you, anyone."

Brian's stopped tapping, he's eerily silent.

"I know, fuck-I know this is all supposed to be behind us. It was such a different life. It just-it wouldn't leave me alone, I didn't- I mean-it just came back I don't know what to tell you and-I don't-"

He has to stop and steady his voice.

"I don't want you to think I hate you or I'm trying to spite you or get back at you. I feel really fucking pathetic and stupid, I don't want to be an old crazy obsessive ex to you I just started writing and it turned out being good shit, none of it was planned-none of it. Coming here was just a fucking unfortunate coincidence and I didn't find out you lived here until the tour was all booked, planned out, I didn't- _fuck,"_

His lungs have completely constricted, his throat feels closed up. He crosses his arms again and stares at the floor, petrified.

"It's not my place to be here. I know. And I'm sorry."

Brian swallows hard, nearly choking. He's watching Curt from his place across the room.

Taking the time to look at him now, or rather, being forced to by the closed quarters, the trap he'd set for himself, he sees how vulnerable he looks. Hunched over, eyes downcast, voice weak. He looks like a little boy, and in fact, if it weren't for the faint creases of his forehead, and the shallow sweeps of bags under his glossy eyes, he'd be the same Curt of ten years prior. A soft, unsure version, of course. He knows the Curt he once knew wouldn't show this to him, no matter the circumstance.

The thought makes something sharp twist in his stomach. He can't push it down now, can't even grasp the will to try.

Curt's clawing at the back of his hand, taking quick shaky breaths. He looks like he's trying to disappear within himself. His expression is far away, but it doesn't hide the sheen of panic, the glint in his eyes akin to a deer in headlights.

"You don't have to be afraid of me," He says, and it comes out in a bit of a burst,  
"I won't tell anyone you came here. I won't blow this up."  
Curt glances up at him, and Brian's face softens further, his lips curving tenderly.  
He casts his eyes down to the floor, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the carpet.  
"It hasn't all gone away for me either, you know," He admits, eyes on the pin again, "It hasn't gone away."  
Curt stutters, then shoves his hands in his pockets, his hair falling across his face.  
"I know you didn't come here to hurt me, Curt."

He stands a bit straighter then, like a weight has been lifted off of him.

"Your play was really wonderful," He says, raspy voice barely above a whisper. "What I saw of it anyway, you're a really great writer."

Curt pushes his hair back from his face then, tucking it behind his ear. He looks at Brian again, his eyes kinder, a slight smile tugging at his mouth.

"A great writer I mean, in a way I didn't get to see before."

Brian smiles back, tiredly, but with a smug twist to it.  
"Thank you, Mr. Wild. ' _It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.'_ "  
Curt wrinkles his nose, his smile widening,  
"What's with all this _Mr. Wild_ shit, Mr. Sla-"  
He stops, and the humor drops off of Brian's face with a flinch. His eyes become darting, defensive, as if someone may leap through the door and grab him.  
"I'm sorry-" He stumbles, "I'm sorry-"  
Brian visibly collects himself, and folds his hands in his lap.  
"Please refrain from calling me that in my place of work."  
"Yeah- sorry."  
Silence falls, heavy and querulous. His fingers resume their tapping on the arm of the chair.  
Curt's breathing becomes difficult again, his guilt hot on his face.  
"You may call me Mr. Stoningham," Brian says, obviously trying to bridge the gap,  
"Or Brian. If you like, I also occasionally go by _Thomas_ now." He sneers, and straightens an imaginary crease in his pants.  
"How very wretched," Curt murmurs, and he actually chuckles, his shoulders relaxing.  
When Brian glances up, his eyes fall upon the pin again.

Curt's face feels warm. He doesn't know how Brian feels about it-the pin. He'd always just had it on his jacket. When he'd bought the jacket, leather, with orange on the sides, his favorite, back in '78 he'd simply put it on and had never really had to think about it again.

He feels even more shy. Brian seems so professional, intimidating, untouchable. Not cold though, not anymore.

Curt crosses the room and sits on the dark blue floral printed loveseat across from him, and pulls out his pack of cigarettes.

He pulls one out, and then offers the carton to Brian. He meets his eyes, and they're so blue. Bluer than he even remembers.

"You still smoke?"

"No," Brian scoffs, "I've given up all human vice."  
"Right," He lights one and hands it to him, "Cool ashtray, by the way."  
He grins, and pulls on his cigarette. He's very posh about it, very Brian.  
"You know, I stole that pin from Jack."  
Curt is startled by how bluntly it's brought up.  
"Er-Yeah."  
"Why didn't you ever give it back to him?"

He wasn't expecting to have to answer this question. He rarely even thinks about the pin, it's just something that's a part of him now. It really had only been an issue that one time, years ago, when he'd thought he'd lost it. Jack had never even mentioned the pin to him.

"He never asked about it, and I guess I never wanted to." Curt says, and realizes it's kind of a lazy answer.

"What I mean is, it's sentiment means something to me. I don't want him to have it back."

Brian glances from the pin back to Curt's face again, seeming to be processing that concept.

"I see," He says, incredulous. He takes another graceful pull on his cigarette.

Curt watches his lips close around it, and after a moment the smoke flowing out of his mouth. He feels himself flush and he tears his eyes away.  
There's a knock on the door: He tenses, but Brian rises calmly, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray.  
He opens it so that only his face can be seen, and says calmly,  
"Ah- Mr. De Winter. Am I needed for something?"  
"Mr. Stoningham, sir- the show is over…"  
Curt sees Brian's shoulders droop, his disappointment evident even if he can't see his expression.  
"Indeed. I shall be ready to speak to the cast soon."  
"Who have you got in there, sir?"  
A small pause, and then quietly,  
"An old friend of mine, from England. He'll be pushing off soon."  
He shuts the door and turns back to him, brushing a hand through his hair: with a little jolt, Curt realizes his eyes are shining, like he's holding back tears.  
"Sorry for making you miss your show," He says, uncertainly.  
"That's alright. I'll be seeing it again twice tomorrow." He makes an attempt to smile, but it's pinched. Curt is quiet, picking at his fingers again.  
"Should I go?"  
"Are you satisfied with this talk?"  
A slow, dead feeling starts in the middle of Curt's chest and spreads until his head is throbbing, and his feet feel like they're nailed to the floor. Of course not. Now everything just feels worse, even more unresolved.  
"I guess."  
Brian looks shy suddenly, a little afraid. He swallows a couple times, then focuses his eyes on the pattern of the loveseat.  
"How many more days will you be in Paris?"  
"Why?" It comes out harsher than he'd meant it, and louder.  
"I thought you might want to talk again."  
"Don't feel obligated, Brian."  
"I don't- I want to see you." He stops, then, and turns back to the door. Another uncomfortable, strained silence.  
"Another day and a half." He mutters, finally.  
"Could you see me tomorrow night, alone?" His voice is very quiet and dry, and Curt knows he's being especially careful not to let his tone make promises.  
"Sure, where?"  
"I have a flat."  
"Does it have an address?"  
Brian crosses back over to his desk and scribbles it out on a piece of yellow paper, folding it and handing it to him. He takes it, and opens it, just so he'll have something to do with his hands.  
"I have to go," He whisks by him and opens the door, and his expression is strange, unreadable, "Do you need me to show you the way out?"  
Curt shakes his head, shoving the paper deep into his pocket.  
Brian smiles faintly,  
"Until tomorrow." 


	11. Even If It Smells Like A Street

_Brian's lips are stained, bruised. He's drunk, in his old living room in Birmingham. He knows that everyone knows, but that no-one will say anything. He knows he'll get punished for it in the morning, but that nothing will ever be discussed. He wonders what it would take to get him thrown out of this house, and has a sudden urge to push that limit._

" _I kissed him," He wants to say, he wants to roll over and slur it to his father, who's watching television like a rigid corpse._

" _I kissed him, I kissed him, I kissed him in my room and in your house. Everything you've thought has been true."_

 _Brian laughs, and feels his mother's eyes turn to him from the couch, cold and disapproving. He wants to push everything, suddenly, to break all of it. To crush every eggshell he's ever walked on, and get himself thrown out, or maybe even make them mad enough to kill him. It's a feeling he'll become more and more addicted to, until one day, his only fascination will be destroying himself._

 _But right now, it's new. It counteracts the rising shame in his stomach, making him feel powerful and sick._

" _We did more than kiss," He mouths softly, "We did more than you think."_

 _Neither of them look at him, but he imagines that their silhouettes become stiffer. He imagines they heard him._

 _Another giggle bubbles out of his chest, rising over the white blare._

" _Go upstairs, Thomas," His father says, low and furious, "Go to your room."_

 _He stays in his seat, discombobulated, not sure he can get up._

 _His father turns to him,_

" _None of us want to look at you. Go up."_

 _Brian is on his feet, swaying, still laughing. He's so much angrier than either of them, he believes. They have no idea what it means to be angry._

 _The sick feeling is stronger than ever before, and he pauses at the foot of the stairs, only to vomit all over the floor._

 _He turns to them and smiles, overcome with pleasure._

Brian crushes his cigarette under the toe of his shoe, overcome with the same sick feeling that he'd had then. He feels like he's sixteen again, making mistakes that he won't ever fix. He's standing on the bridge, staring at his white skull's reflection on the black water. Every few minutes he'll glance at his watch, the time Curt is supposed to meet him ticking ever closer. If he's been wrong about this whole thing, if he's been wrong about trusting him, it's over. He'll never be able to hide again.

 _You get what you want, and you do what you will._

Last night had been such a blur of thoughts and feelings, it barely feels real. Curt standing in his office, seeming so out of place: Black and blue against the floral print. Telling him things he didn't know and didn't want to hear. Curt had missed him. Brian had returned that feeling, and had told him as much, though every fiber of his being had told him to make him leave. Send him back to his own little world, back to Jack and Malcolm. Brian supposed it was almost romantic, him appearing on opening night and ending up in his office. Perhaps it proved that love was still alive in this cold, modern decade- the way his heart had jumped and crashed in his chest when Curt spoke, the way blushing and smiling came so easily to him. They were as ridiculous as he'd remembered them being, always darting around the real problem, around their real feelings.

 _He's beautiful,_ Brian thinks, lighting another cigarette, _he's very beautiful. He's beautiful because he's like nothing else I've ever loved._

He shouldn't have given him a written copy of his address. He didn't trust Jack or Malcolm, and he certainly didn't trust Curt to keep it away from them. He'd leave it in his coat pocket, or in his nightstand, and then what?

Anxiety slithers up Brian's spine, but he's already been in the thick of it so long it barely registers.

Denied hunger nauseates him- he cannot eat, not today.

The past two shows, which had been at ten and two respectively, had blown by him in a wave of confusion and exhaustion. No show was ever as exciting as opening night, but these had seemed especially trite: Brian supposed that was what happened when your personal life became more intriguing than your fictional works. He'd always tried to keep it so that wasn't the case- maybe he'd put a terrorist attack or a mass poisoning in his next play, just to keep it even.

 _What will I do when he leaves again?_

The thought comes to him suddenly, fretfully: the dark energy buzzing in his brain tells him that Brian could ask him to stay, that he could make him stay forever. No, he couldn't. They'd tried that back when it was plausible, when they were young and stupid and energetic enough to make it work.

There are other things to worry about now, such as the funeral he had to attend next week. Such as returning home to Birmingham and seeing his family, such as answering the endless passive-aggressive questions from his mother. There were things such as grieving for his father, whom he'd never really known beyond a dark face in the hallway that he had to avoid.

Only a half an hour until seven. He has enough time to get to the liquor store and vacuum before Curt arrives, if he's coming after all.

By ten o' clock he's thoroughly pissed, and Curt is over three hours late. The bottle of cheap wine- _yes, he'd bought wine-_ dangles listlessly from his fingers, clinking occasionally against the floor.

He feels nauseous, stupid, and completely humiliated. He should've known Curt would never show, that such an _important_ and _brilliant_ talent would have better things to do. Maybe Malcolm and Jack had deterred him somehow, maybe Jack had talked him out of it. He always had such a hold on Curt, or at least that's how it had seemed to him.

Or maybe he'd done the smart thing, the mature thing, and realized it was a terrible idea. Tears prickle in the corners of his eyes, making his embarrassment even worse. Now he's crying over it.

Then comes the knock on his door, quiet and apologetic.

"…Brian?"

His mouth twists into a sneer. Maybe he won't say anything, just let him stand out there all night, or until he has somewhere to be.

"Listen, I would've called but I didn't have your number," Brian rolls his eyes and sets the bottle down,

"Jack found out, okay? But don't worry, he's not going to do anything about it. He just- really didn't want me to come here."

He closes his eyes, fisting a hand in his hair in an attempt to control his irritation.

"Please. I really fucked up, I know, I just couldn't get away. Malcolm got really suspicious-"

He pauses as another set of footsteps passes him in the hallway: someone on their way home.

"And I didn't know what to do, because Jack was just making him upset by not telling him what was up, and then they started fighting- it doesn't really matter. Please let me in."

Brian heaves himself to his feet, thinking nothing, feeling nothing. A hard knot has settled in his chest, and he feels his face beginning to burn.

He yanks open the door, causing Curt to stumble backwards into the corridor.

It's dim, freezing cold. One of the lights is flickering, casting odd shadows across his pale face, making the whole scene even sadder. Curt looks very small, very unsure- in that moment his eyes seem impossibly dark, and blue. He's still wearing the same jacket, and the same pin- a bit dulled with age, but still the same. People must have given him hell for wearing Brian Slade's pin, they must have bullied him for years.

"I'm sorry, Brian," He says, "I didn't want to do that to you."

"I've been waiting for three hours."

"I know- I know."

"I set this up so you could talk to me. This was for _you._ "

Curt's mouth is red from the cold, as are his cheeks and nose. He looks away, towards the flickering light: his hair turns silver and gold, silver and gold.

"I'm sorry."

Brian stares at him, unrelenting.

"Come in if you're coming in. I've drunk most of the wine."

He ducks back into the warmth of his flat, throwing himself back into his chair by the window.

Curt stands in the doorway, his hand on the knob, the chill of the corridor slipping in past his boots.

He picks at his zipper, shame apparent in every line of his body.

"Close the door, please."

He does so, and looks up at Brian again: In the warm light of the living room, he seems younger, smaller. He kicks out his legs and crosses them, smiling up at him maliciously.

"Sit down, preferably somewhere close, so we can hear each other well."

Without a word, he sits on the loveseat across from him, a defensive, bitter look beginning to settle on his face. They're about to have a screaming match- lovely. The silence is coarse, and he refuses to break it, instead needling his eyes into Curt's until he looks away.

"I don't want to do this while you're pissed off and wasted."

"Why not? We've done it that way plenty of times before. If you didn't want it to be like this you should've been on time, instead of making me wait around for you like an _idiot._ "

Brian's voice echoes off the walls: If anyone from next door complains, he'll kill them.

"Well that's really fucking fair, isn't it?" Curt's voice is rising now too, bringing him right back to the old days,

"Nobody made you wait, nobody made you invite me, nobody made you do anything you didn't want to do."

He's leaning in slightly, his eyes glowing, unfocused. Brian wonders suddenly if he's high, or drunk, or both.

"I'm not blaming you for anything, I'm sure Jack can be very persuasive."

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Don't act stupid, Curt, I know where you went and what you did when you abandoned me the first time."

Brian realizes he's breathing very hard and fast, and that it feels like something is winding itself tightly around his lungs. Curt's expression switches from hurt, to angry, to confused.

"I didn't _abandon_ you for anything," He says slowly, and Brian decides that he's definitely stoned,

"You were getting rid of _me._ "

It's so hard to inhale, it's so hard to remember to breathe.

Curt's voice had softened momentarily, but it's rising again, and he's leaning in closer and closer as though he might punch him.

"I tried to come back, I kept trying to come back- you got rid of me, you let Jerry throw me off the label- and then you fucking died on me, and then you weren't dead, and then you ran off- What the fuck was I supposed to do?"

"I don't know," There's something blocking up his throat, so his voice is only a whisper,

"I don't know."

"You know the real reason I went to Berlin, Brian?" Curt has never spoken so softly, or looked so menacing, "You know why I went?"

He doesn't answer.

"It wasn't so I could fuck Jack-I went because at the time, and I'm sure you remember what things were like in '74, I could get heroin there for _nothing_ and I knew I could get enough to kill myself. Y'know, I hadn't done that shit since I met you, but I really didn't feel like staying alive after you dropped me on my ass because I wasn't good enough for you."

His eyes are glittering, a flat, dangerous blue. Brian can feel the tears streaming down his face, can hear his own pathetic sobs ripping themselves from his throat. Curt looks pale and drawn, lost, and with a sick sense of falling off the Earth he wonders if this is the last time they'll ever see each other.

"That is not- that is _not true,_ " He stutters, thick and almost unintelligible,

"That was _not_ what was wrong that is _not_ what I said-"

"So what did you say, exactly?" Curt's screaming again, and he's on his feet, pacing back and forth,

"What did you mean when you told me I was a bad investment? What did you mean when you started talking about me like I was just a commodity? When you told me I was out of a job, and that maybe I should consider getting a room somewhere else?"

"What are you pretending, Curt?" Brian tries to shout, but it's weak and floundering,

"It was all falling away from us. It was horrible. For God's sake, we were children- and we were losing it, everyone was losing it. I didn't know what to do. I tried to talk to him about keeping you on but you were _unmanageable,"_ He wipes his nose on the back of his hand, "And there was nothing I could do."

Curt has stopped pacing, standing dumb in the middle of the floor.

"Then you left, and I didn't know where you were-"

"If you'd given a shit-"

"I asked all around," He sits up straighter in his chair, forcing their eyes to meet, "I asked everyone where you were and not even the junkies could tell me. The next thing I heard you were in a different country, with Jack, making a record and I had nothing left. I had no one."

Brian imagines that Curt's lip is trembling slightly, but it's too dim in the room to tell. He's turned partially away from him, eyes halfway to the door.

"I saw you at the show," He says, and all the heat and anger is sucked out of the room in an instant,

"But you didn't come up to me."

"I was in the process of coming here. I went to the airport that night."

He looks back at him, and his gaze is hard, tears spilling down his cheeks.

"That's it, then. I think we've talked."

He crosses to the door, his blonde hair whipping out behind him. Brian stumbles to his feet, feeling blank and numb.

He manages to grab his arm, and he clutches it as tightly as he can. Curt is almost hyperventilating.

"Where are you going? Why are you going?"

"It hurts too much, I don't want to be here anymore."

Brian's hand fists around his arm, and he looks back at him, unsure.

"Don't go," He presses him to the door, trying to hold him in place,

"Don't go."

Curt stares at him incredulously, and so he kisses him.


	12. Heaven

Brian's lips feel soft, plush and hot against his. His face is warm and wet with tears.

He's pressing Curt's shoulder into the door with one hand and the other on his hip.

He's crushing him there, and he's stronger than he looks. Curt could still fight him off, get away if he really tried, but he doesn't. It's too much. He couldn't.

Brian means it. Brian wants him. Desperate for it.

Curt kisses him back, fists a hand in his hair. He bites his lip and he gasps into it.

He tastes like cigarettes, wine, and salt. His other hand is slipping up under his shirt now.

"Curt." Brian whispers, sounding wrecked. His skin feels warm and soft under Curt's cool fingers.

He pulls him closer, flush against him.

"Do you want this," Curt rasps under his breath, and he moves his hips. "Do you want me to fuck you, Brian?"

His tone is low, dangerous. Brian shivers.

Curt's already hard and he can feel it.

"Yes," He's nearly sobbing. "I want it. Just fuck me, take me, _please._ "

His hand slides down to Brian's ass and squeezes. He feels a burst of a startled breath on his cheek.

"You made me mad."

"I'm sorry Curt, I'm sorry puppy, please."

"Fuck." He's burning up now, straining against his jeans. "You're so hot. Look so pretty all teary eyed."

" _Puppy_ -"

"You think you can just start calling me _that_ all of a sudden?"

Brian mewls and pushes back. He's shaking, getting embarrassingly hard himself.

Suddenly he's being pushed off of Curt, forcefully. For a split second, he's terrified he's ruined the whole thing, but then he grabs Brian's chin and meets his eyes.

They're glossy, deep blue glistening, pupils blown wide.

"If you're gonna act like a stupid little slut, then I'm going to treat you like one."

Brian gasps. He tries to nod but he can't move, Curt's too strong.

His knees feel weak.

Curt kisses him again, trailing down his cheek to his neck. He bites him hard.

"Fuck-Curt please-"

"Shut up." He reaches up and grips him by the back of the neck. Brian feels dizzy.

"You're gonna make it up to me."

He can barely even make a sound before Curt's shoving him in the direction of the hallway.

"Bedroom."

Brian can barely keep his eyes open, he backs them up into the entryway, kissing him, not being able to keep himself from whimpering into his mouth.

Then he feels himself being lifted off his feet, he quickly wraps his legs around Curt's waist.

He's breathless and squirming. His cock is throbbing in his trousers.

Brian can't think and suddenly he's being thrown down on his bed. Curt's crawling over him and pinning his arms above his head.

He's tugging on his jeans.

"Want these off."

Brian lifts his hips, and allows him to unzip and yank them off. They're discarded somewhere across the room.

Curt looks violent, angry. Like he's not sure if he wants to use his ass or break his nose.

He rips his own shirt off. Brian feels too hot now, and tugs at his own button down desperately.

"Useless baby," He says, exasperated and soft. He pulls Brian's hands away and undoes the buttons one by one. His hair falls in front of his face and he's breathing hard.

It seems to take forever, he's squirming and bucking his hips. Then Curt pulls him up and finally, gets the shirt off.

"Please fuck me puppy, please."

He's nearly panting, staring at Curt with glossy pleading eyes.

"Please."

"Whiny little whore, you want me to fuck you?"

"Yes, yes please, just take me I want it. I want cock."

"God, fuck, shut up, Brian. Really hard."

He whimpers and shifts, his eyes are on the bulge showing through Curt's jeans.

"I want it. Give it to me already." He makes a move to just reach out and grab his cock, but Curt stops him.

Then he takes him by the back of the neck again and shoves him down on his stomach. He manhandles him, pulls him up on his knees , ass in the air.

He pulls Brian's underwear down past his thighs. He runs his hands over him, murmuring praise, drags his nails up and down his back until he starts whimpering.

"Just fuck me, just fuck me I can't take it anymore."

"Jesus christ."  
He hears a zipper, then he feels something hard and hot pressing against his hole.

"Fuck fuck, please. Please. Anything. Just put it in me."

"Brian-fuck. Baby. I can't wait. I don't have the patience to work you open."

"Don't then-don't. Just force it in."

He hears Curt spit into his hand a few times and rub it over his cock.

"It's gonna hurt."

"Don't care. Just do it."

Curt growls low in his throat and pushes in. He's anchoring Brian down on the bed and using him to steady himself.

He's splitting Brian open.

"Fuck, you're tight. So tight. Too fucking small for me."

"Daddy, daddy. Too much. Too big."  
"Oh my god."

Curt starts moving his hips, slamming into him, tearing him open.

Nobody felt like Brian. Nothing did.

"You're clenching-baby," He reaches down and fists Brian's cock. "My tiny princess."

"Daddy, daddy, more, daddy. Too much. Too thick."

The sound of skin slapping against skin is loud, almost too much to bare.

Curt bites the back of his neck and forces it harder.

"You're _mine_. This ass is mine."

"Yours, daddy. All yours."

"Mine."

It's all going too fast but neither of them can slow down. It's been too long.

It's too much.

"Don't. Take your hand off. I'll come. Don't."

"No."

"Daddy please."

"Want you to make a mess for me."

"I cant, I can't take it. It's so much it's too much."

"Are you sorry, baby?"

Brian's twitching, and clenching around Curt like a vice.

He's pulling out and slamming in, over and over.

"I'm sorry daddy, I'm so sorry."

"What are you sorry for?"

Brian can't think, can't even make a sound.

"Come on, kitten."

"I'm sorry for being a brat."

"That's right." Curt's voice is shaky, raspy. He sounds wrecked.

"Daddy your cock is throbbing so hard. Bet you wanna shoot."

Then he reaches down and shoves his fingers into Brian's mouth.

He gasps, moaning around them.

"You're gonna shut your filthy mouth, stupid whore. You come when I tell you to."

Curt spanks him, once, twice, then he loses count. His brain goes blank, he can't see.

It burns, it stings, he's getting stretched open and used like a toy. A way he hasn't been in years.

It hits that perfect spot inside him until tears are running down his face.

His whole body is trembling. His muscles are tight, he can't stop clenching.

Brian can barely hear Curt's voice. It's far away, low, breathless.

"You're my bitch. You're gonna be good and do what you're told."

He's going so so fast. He takes his fingers out of Brian's mouth, and now he's panting.

Then he squeezes Brian's cock.

"Come. Now."

"Daddy, daddy, daddy-"

He tumbles over the edge with such intensity that his vision goes white. He spills over Curt's hand, all over the sheets.

Not a second later, he feels hot come spilling into him, filling him up. Curt is breathing his name, somewhere above him.

As soon as he lets him go, Brian collapses onto the mattress. His head is empty.

Then Curt is next to him, pulling him into his chest.

"So good for me. So, so good."

Everything in Brian feels warm, light and feathery for a long time. Very slowly his environment starts to filter back into consciousness.

He feels Curt's fingers carting gently through his hair. His chest is rising and falling, steady and slow. His other arm is around Brian protectively, a comforting weight against his back.

His smell is the same as it always was, sandalwood, cigarettes and sweat.

Brian realizes with increasing dread that this is the safest he's felt in as long as he can remember. His heart feels like it's being squeezed.

He shifts and pulls away, just a little, and is met with big, soft and concerned ocean eyes.

The squeezing gets tighter.

"Feel okay?" Curt asks, gently.

"Yes," His voice is a whisper. "Very okay."

Curt chuckles softly, looking content and relaxed for a few blissful moments.

Then uncertainty creeps into his expression, he separates from him and sits up.

He looks a mess, his hair tousled and wild, damp with sweat. Brian's eyes trail down his chest.

"Oh my." He can't help laughing a little.

"What?"

"I assure you I didn't mean to."

There's a deep purple coin-sized bruise just below Curt's collar bone. He looks down at it, pressing his finger into it. He smirks, and shrugs.

"It's fine. My shirt isn't off as much as it used to be."

"Oh no? Shame." Even so, some part of Brian feels very satisfied that Curt won't be able to physically erase him for at least a week. It sends a jolt into the pit of his stomach.

"Do you have any?" Curt asks, looking him over. He moves to check his back.

"Oh fuck." He bursts out, rough with laughter.

"What did you do to me?"

He trails a finger up Brian's neck and taps a spot just below his hairline.

"It's pretty bad."  
"Curt!"  
" _I assure you I didn't mean to."_

Brian's blushing, Curt's hand is still on the back of his neck, rubbing the bruise. There are teeth marks.

"You're terrible! I work in a professional setting!"

"Mmhm."

Brian sighs, his eyes still on him. He really is beautiful, and it's only gotten stronger with age.

Curt drops his hold on him, and tears a hand through his hair, a deep-set nervous habit of his.

"What time is it?"

Brian glances at the clock on his nightstand.

"Two," He says, carefully. "Why?"

"My flight's at ten."

"Oh."

It hits him like a train. Curt is going to leave and he can't stop him.

"Yeah." His voice is hoarse.

He reaches across the bed to grab his jeans, and sits on the end and pulls them on. He gets to his feet, and zips them up.

"Are you leaving now, then?" Brian asks, tone flat.

Curt turns to look at him.

"Do you want me to?"

"Well, I hardly know what we're going to do now."

Brian gets up and pulls on his own trousers. He tugs his shirt on, leaving it unbuttoned.

"You can just tell me to go."

"I didn't say I wanted you to leave."

"It's what you implied." Curt says, defensive. He's scratching his knuckles now, picking off scabs.

"I don't," Brian takes a deep breath. "I'm just not sure what to do now."

"You've gotten your use out of me, haven't you?"  
They're standing only a few feet apart now.

"What?"

"If I wasn't for how good in bed I was I would be unbearable. Isn't that what they used to say about me? 'Cause y'know that's really all I'm useful for, otherwise I'm just batshit crazy and a bad investment."

For a second, Brian can't even think he's so angry.

"Honestly, Curt? Really? You think _that's_ what's going on here?"

"Well it's just the facts," His tone is sarcastic, dismissive. "I was never much more than a whore to you."

"Where is this even coming from? That doesn't even make sense. What are you trying to guilt me into?"

Curt is tearing at his hand, and there's blood dripping down his fingers. He doesn't say anything.

"Do you really think that's how I feel?" Brian says, incredulous. "Are you that stupid?"

"I don't know, Brian!" He's raising his voice now. "I don't know why else you'd invite me here, let me fuck you, and then get all closed off on me and act like you want me to go."

"Were you not present for the conversation we just had where I was sobbing, were you not there when I was literally clinging to you, begging you not to leave my flat like a desperate idiot? When have I ever in my life, Curt, given you that impression?"

He's silent, and rocking back and forth slightly.

"Give me one bloody instance when I ever treated you that way!"

"Mandy." Curt blurts out. "She told me you said that."

"What?"

"After we split, she told me you said I was just another one of your whores."

"I never said that!" Brian is nearly shouting, throat burning and eyes watering. "Never, I would never."

"She said-" Curt says, his voice is shaking and he's breathing hard and shallow. "She said that you told her that when we came back from our trip. When we went away to the beach together, just us."

He's crying now, tears are streaming down his face and he's trying desperately to breathe, still clawing at his hand.

"I-I couldn't let go of you, I wouldn't, because fuck I loved you Brian. I loved you so much. I knew it'd never be like that again. And then when she-at the Death of-fuck-"

Brian can't breathe.

"At the Death of Glitter show when I saw you, and then you didn't-you didn't talk to me, she told me that back then you told that to her, and that she didn't want to see me keep getting hurt. I got too complicated and you threw me away the first chance you got."

Brian's crying now too, and he grabs Curt by the wrist.

"Curt, no." He says, voice too loud, too harsh. "I was lying. It wasn't how I felt. I loved you, I loved you so completely, I would've done anything to keep you."

He's hyperventilating in earnest now, spitting out heaving sobs.

"Darling, no, I swear. I just didn't want her involved. You were all there was. You were everything to me. Curt, look at me."

He meets his eyes, hurt and panic flooding his vision.

Brian cradles his face, feeling a desperate need to be closer, to make him see. He presses his forehead to Curt's, his face still wet with tears.

"I adored you. There was no one else I wanted. Only you. I promise you. There was only you."

Curt throws his arms around Brian's shoulders, buries his face in his neck. He knows there's no going back, he's shown too much, fallen apart one time too many. He feels so weak, and an overpowering ache to be close.

Brian pulls him in tighter, holds him in a way he hasn't in forever.

"I mean it, Curt. I wouldn't. I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry." He speaks in a soft murmur and rubs his back. "Please don't cry, sweet boy."

He can't stop. The weight of it all is crushing him, breaking his heart over and over. The burden of that hurt for so many years, how hard this tour has been, seeing Brian, being here with him, having it all drowning him, and knowing that in just a few hours he's going to be taken away from it again.

He's going to have to go back to his apartment in Seattle all by himself with everything swimming in his head. What else can he do?

He can't stay here. He and Brian have seperate lives. Very different lives.

Curt has no idea what he wants, except to never have to leave.


	13. Atmosphere

Charles de Gaulle Airport is busy, massive, surreal. It looks and feels like every other airport Curt has been in. A dimension removed from reality, where time is fluid- nothing certain, nothing solid.

He's boarding the plane, finally, Jack and Malcolm trailing behind him as they walk down the hallway, carry on bags hanging off their shoulders, across their backs.

Curt takes a window seat. They only fly private. He'd only ever flown private. He'd never flown before meeting Brian, being swept up in the madness of it all, he'd just ended up places, without really knowing anything about the process of getting there.

Everyone leaves him alone, gives him space. Curt is quite possibly the most exhausted he's ever been in his life. He plugs his headphones into his Walkman and closes his eyes and they take off. As they ascend into the clouds, Curt lets the tears come. Sobs shake him as turbulence rocks the plane. Piano riffs and soft symbols muffle the sound in his head.

Sleep finds him halfway into his Chet Baker album. He dreams of falling.

"I'm concerned about him," Jack is stirring milk into his bengal spice tea. "I'm just not sure if I'm comfortable leaving him by himself now. Couldn't we spare a few more weeks, even days?"

He and Malcolm are in Curt's kitchen, the morning after they'd landed in Seattle, sitting across from each other. It's early afternoon. Sun is filtering through the window, the sky outside is clear.

"Babe, he's a grown man. I know you care, and it's really sweet, but don't you wanna get on with our lives? So what, he fucked his ex in Paris and now he's a little depressed. It's not like this is new for him. He has his rough patches, his ups and downs. He'll bounce back."

It's the first thing Curt hears as he eases into consciousness.

 _He has his rough patches, his ups and downs. He'll bounce back._

They're talking about him like they're his parents.

Curt opens his eyes to dim gray walls. The curtains in his bedroom are closed, the air is cool.

He stretches, all his muscles feel stiff. His hands are sore, scabbed over.

He sighs, and sits up. Curt feels hollowed out, empty- like there's a giant hole in his chest. He's shaking a little, his head is pounding. He needs caffeine

The floor is freezing cold on the bottoms of his feet. He makes his way out into the kitchen, groggy and dragging, dreading confrontation.

"Why hello Curtis." Malcolm says, voice not mocking, but not kind either. They're staring at him.

He doesn't say anything, just pushes past to the already prepped coffee machine and presses the on button.

"Who wants a joint?"

Somehow, Curt convinces Jack and Malcolm to go back to Berlin. Over the next few days, he isn't sober for more than thirty minutes. He visits his dealer, stocks up, and spends all his time out of his apartment.

He wanders through the city. He goes to the state forest and walks through the trails high off his ass barely able to comprehend all the green and the winding roads.

He can't keep Brian off of his mind. Big blue eyes, plush soft mouth, and how it felt against his neck. Smooth, gentle voice. Arms around him, sandy hair tickling his chin, his thin, lithe body tucked against his chest.

Curt is still in love with him. He can't hide from it, can't run from it, can't deny it.

It's burning- he's in physical pain. He can feel the distance. He can feel the strain.

He remembers having to tear himself away from Brian, wrench himself out of his arms. He'd gotten his collar wet with his own tears.

It hurt then and it hadn't stopped.

Yet, still, it isn't until very early in the morning, after a sleepless night that he gives in.

Eyes full of tears, head swimming, drowning in memories, blood full of drugs, he dials the number to the phone in Brian's flat, and makes the international call.

He feels stupid, desperate and childish all over again. It had been maybe the one constant over the last three weeks- that feeling, that inadequate feeling. Like he wasn't good enough for Brian anymore.

He has to confirm the ridiculous amount of money he'll have to pay for the connection. The line is fuzzy, and then starts to ring.

Curt holds his breath and prays that Brian won't mind, that he'll accept, that he'll answer.

After what seems like forever, there's a click, and then a soft, English " _Hello?"_

Curt chokes, and tries to gather himself.

"Um," He finally says, after far too long. "Hey."

There's a beat of silence.

"May I ask who's calling?"

"Oh, uh, sorry. It's Curt."

A sigh. Of relief? Exhaustion? He can't tell, and starts picking at his fingers.

"Hi." Brian says, and now he sounds a bit surprised, maybe even shy.

Curt already feels his throat burning like he's going to start sobbing all over again. He takes a few steadying breaths, but it doesn't help anything.

"Uh-" He swallows hard. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," Brian says, his voice is gentler than it has any right to be. "A bit surprised to hear from you, really."

Curt can't hold it in and the sob hurts as it comes up his throat.

"I-I'm sorry, Brian, I didn't-" His breathing is so labored he thinks he'll fall over. "I'm sorry. I don't have a right to just- fucking, break down on you like this."

"Darling, it's alright. Just breathe, everything's alright. It's all okay."

"No, but really- I just- I miss you, Brian."

Brian lets out a tiny breath.

"I miss you too, sweet boy." His voice is barely above a whisper.

"You don't have to humor me."

"I'm not, I mean it," Curt imagines him running his fingers through his hair. "I'm concerned. Are you safe? Is someone with you?"

"No, no Mal and Jack flew back to Berlin yesterday."  
Brian sighs, feeling a mix of worry and a bit of selfish satisfaction.

"Just, nothing is the same," Curt is shaking. "I can't, just pretend I wasn't with you. I can't. And I don't know if you feel this. I don't want to- to bother you with it or anything like that."

"Puppy," His voice is a bit unsteady now, too. "Of course I feel the same. It-It's hurting, how far apart we are. That you're crying at two in the morning, and I can't hold you. Should never have let you leave."

"Brian, baby," Tears are streaming down his face. He feels so pathetic and his chest feels so tight. "Baby."

"I don't want you far away from me like this."

"I need you."

"Don't talk like that, Curt. It hurts."

"I'm sorry, I just- I do."

"I need you too."

They're both quiet for a moment, the only sound Curt trying and failing to catch his breath.

"How- how about this," Brian stutters, sounding unsure. "I could come see you? You came to me, didn't you? It's only fair."

"Oh, uh-"

"If you don't want me to, I understand."

"No, no. I want you to. Very much."

"You do?"

"Yes, Brian. I want to see you. I'll pay for your ticket."

"No," Brian says, firm. "You will not."

Curt sniffs.

"I'm in good standing to."

"You just came back from a bloody tour, I know those expenses. I'm capable."

"Okay, okay." He sighs. "Just, promise you won't lie to me and leave me waiting at the airport or something."

"I wouldn't, puppy, of course not."

"Okay. Next week?"

"Next week."

"Can I call you again? Before then?"

"I'm not busy at all on Sunday."

"Okay."

"Please stay safe, Curt. I need to see you again."

"Yeah, yeah I will."

"I'm counting down the hours."

"Shut up," Curt laughs, finally. "You ol' romantic."

Brian kisses the phone.

"Uh-um-" He feels his face grow warm. "Wow."

"Kiss me back."

He does.

"Goodnight, Curt." Brian says, very soft. "It'll feel better. Be safe."

"I will, you too, Goodnight."


End file.
